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Book: The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2) by Ron Sewell
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Authors: Ron Sewell
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interest.
“How many?”
“More than forty, but it’s not the number, it’s what they represent. One possesses a piece of the holy cross embedded in its frame. The Templar Knights protected this with their lives and delivered it to Cyprus. Legend tells us it possesses inexplicable healing powers. This collection would be worth millions.”
She turned her head towards him and smiled reassuringly. “You know where they are. Why don’t you retrieve them?”
“I can’t.” He leaned towards her, catching the faintest hint of her perfume. “The Turkish army stole icons to sell to the highest bidder. The Church and the government recovered a few but the whereabouts of hundreds remain unknown. I don’t think the Turks would let me walk out of the occupied territory with them under my arm.”
Tired, they lay back on the bed. The storm struck with high energy and ferocity. Thunder filled the sky with a deafening clamour while lightening lit up every corner of the room. When she shook with fear he held her close.
Costas rubbed his eyes as the first light of dawn shone over the eastern horizon. Exhausted from lack of sleep, he grabbed his towel and went for a shower.
“Nitsa,” he shouted down the stairs. “My clothes, are they packed? I’m flying to London at midday.”
“Bishop, every year at this time you go to London and every year I pack your clothes. Why should I forget?”
Costas smiled but said nothing. His car arrived at ten-thirty and proceeded to Paphos airport. He listened to the radio newscaster commenting on the storm, stating that eight inches of rain fell in two hours and triggered devastating flash floods across the island. Costas stared at the trees battered and bent, many broken and on the ground. The buzz of chain saws carving through thick trunks echoed all around.
The driver carried the bishop’s bags to an empty check-in desk. The dark-haired young girl behind the counter checked his baggage. With his boarding card held high, he made his way through passport control and the search area. A uniformed policeman directed him to the first-class lounge.
An attractive attendant let him find a seat.
“Bishop, can I get you something?”
“Cyprus coffee, please, and a biscuit.”
Thirty minutes before take-off, Costas and the other first class passengers boarded. He made himself comfortable as the captain announced they were missing one passenger. Costas knew that this was every flight captain’s nightmare. After a thirty minute delay, Flight BA 2675 raced down the main runway and lifted off into the murky grey sky.
Three hours and fifty minutes later, the Seven-four-seven landed at London Heathrow. First-class passengers disembarked straight away. Economy, like greyhounds in the trap, waited for their release. Costas strolled through passport control with ease while overworked customs officers waited for the stampeding horde to arrive.
Twenty minutes later he carried his bags into the arrival lounge. Waiting behind the barrier stood his friend Georgiadis Stamati, headmaster of the Greek Secondary School in Enfield.
“Welcome,” said Georgiadis. He wrapped his arms around the bishop and hugged him.
Costas gazed at the man in front of him. He was dressed in the same style of clothes he always wore. In many ways it had become his uniform; a tweed jacket over an Arran sweater and cord trousers with highly polished brown shoes. No hat covered his mop of wavy black hair that now had streaks of grey at the temples. Though tired and mentally used up, optimism still emanated from his green eyes.
“My apologies for the delay,” said Costas. “I eagerly await my visit and your housekeeper’s cooking. Out of interest, what are we eating tonight?”
Georgiadis smiled. “Mrs Aggeliki never stays after six, and to be fair, she has a husband and five children. Due to the late hour her meal of steak pie, mashed potatoes and cabbage will have to suffer the microwave treatment.”
“The
“How many?”
“More than forty, but it’s not the number, it’s what they represent. One possesses a piece of the holy cross embedded in its frame. The Templar Knights protected this with their lives and delivered it to Cyprus. Legend tells us it possesses inexplicable healing powers. This collection would be worth millions.”
She turned her head towards him and smiled reassuringly. “You know where they are. Why don’t you retrieve them?”
“I can’t.” He leaned towards her, catching the faintest hint of her perfume. “The Turkish army stole icons to sell to the highest bidder. The Church and the government recovered a few but the whereabouts of hundreds remain unknown. I don’t think the Turks would let me walk out of the occupied territory with them under my arm.”
Tired, they lay back on the bed. The storm struck with high energy and ferocity. Thunder filled the sky with a deafening clamour while lightening lit up every corner of the room. When she shook with fear he held her close.
Costas rubbed his eyes as the first light of dawn shone over the eastern horizon. Exhausted from lack of sleep, he grabbed his towel and went for a shower.
“Nitsa,” he shouted down the stairs. “My clothes, are they packed? I’m flying to London at midday.”
“Bishop, every year at this time you go to London and every year I pack your clothes. Why should I forget?”
Costas smiled but said nothing. His car arrived at ten-thirty and proceeded to Paphos airport. He listened to the radio newscaster commenting on the storm, stating that eight inches of rain fell in two hours and triggered devastating flash floods across the island. Costas stared at the trees battered and bent, many broken and on the ground. The buzz of chain saws carving through thick trunks echoed all around.
The driver carried the bishop’s bags to an empty check-in desk. The dark-haired young girl behind the counter checked his baggage. With his boarding card held high, he made his way through passport control and the search area. A uniformed policeman directed him to the first-class lounge.
An attractive attendant let him find a seat.
“Bishop, can I get you something?”
“Cyprus coffee, please, and a biscuit.”
Thirty minutes before take-off, Costas and the other first class passengers boarded. He made himself comfortable as the captain announced they were missing one passenger. Costas knew that this was every flight captain’s nightmare. After a thirty minute delay, Flight BA 2675 raced down the main runway and lifted off into the murky grey sky.
Three hours and fifty minutes later, the Seven-four-seven landed at London Heathrow. First-class passengers disembarked straight away. Economy, like greyhounds in the trap, waited for their release. Costas strolled through passport control with ease while overworked customs officers waited for the stampeding horde to arrive.
Twenty minutes later he carried his bags into the arrival lounge. Waiting behind the barrier stood his friend Georgiadis Stamati, headmaster of the Greek Secondary School in Enfield.
“Welcome,” said Georgiadis. He wrapped his arms around the bishop and hugged him.
Costas gazed at the man in front of him. He was dressed in the same style of clothes he always wore. In many ways it had become his uniform; a tweed jacket over an Arran sweater and cord trousers with highly polished brown shoes. No hat covered his mop of wavy black hair that now had streaks of grey at the temples. Though tired and mentally used up, optimism still emanated from his green eyes.
“My apologies for the delay,” said Costas. “I eagerly await my visit and your housekeeper’s cooking. Out of interest, what are we eating tonight?”
Georgiadis smiled. “Mrs Aggeliki never stays after six, and to be fair, she has a husband and five children. Due to the late hour her meal of steak pie, mashed potatoes and cabbage will have to suffer the microwave treatment.”
“The
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